A Spectacular One Night Engagement
by LeighKelly
Summary: As Santana takes the stage for a singular performance as Fanny Brice, she looks out into the audience and gets a very unexpected surprise. One-shot, set during 5x18, The Back-Up Plan.


**Author's Note: So I had no intention of writing any canon based Brittana for the rest of the season, then I watched _The Back-Up Plan, _and I had a lot of feelings about Santana going on stage as Fanny, and where Brittany was, and this sort of just came out (story of my life, right?). Take it as you will, and as always, keep your chin up shippers, and don't ever forget that Brittana is endgame!**

* * *

When the words come out of your mouth, volunteering to cover for Rachel, because for some reason she's decided that some lame television audition is worth blowing the _one _thing you've had listen to her drone on and on about for as long as you've known her, you're surprised that you actually spoke them. But once it's out there, that promise that you're going to help, that no one is going to get fired, you know there's no taking taking it back. Kurt does his freaky little squeal, praising you for your _brilliant idea, _and given the way your supposed "friends" sometimes make you feel (with the exception of Mercedes, but that's an entirely different story, one which you're still trying to wrap your brain around), you're a little embarrassed that you latch immediately on to his approval, and you immediately try to play it cool. But regardless, you _are _a good person, Brittany has convinced you of that, and you're sure you've made the right choice to help, sure that she'd be proud of you for doing it, even if it _is _for Rachel.

It's a ridiculous idea, really, you taking the role that you so unceremoniously quit, and you aren't even sure it's at all feasible, or really even legal, considering the unions and contracts that protect stage performers. You're reminded though of the old adage _the show must go on, _and you figure that under the current circumstances, your idea might actually be crazy enough to work. In a matter of thirty seconds, what you expected to be a long, tedious day serving BLTs and cheesecake to obnoxious tourists becomes something entirely different, you're actually going to go on _stage_, and although being Fanny Brice, or being a Broadway star at all isn't your dream, you can't help but feel a thrill, knowing that it will feel really good to be on a stage in front of an audience, to prepare yourself for your real dream, the one that's on the precipice of becoming a _reality, _as soon as you sign the papers that you've tucked into your purse.

Immediately after telling Gunther you have an emergency and need to leave (which you sort of feel bad about, since he _did _hold your job for all those months you were away, and he's short staffed as it is), you slip into a quiet corner in the back room and dial Brittany's number. When she'd dropped out of MIT, she'd agreed to work with them on some special projects that only _she_ was capable of, in between working shifts at the diner to help pay the bills. So, a few days a month, she leaves your life in New York, and works on equations and formulas, things she prefers not to talk about while her _real _life is happening, her life with _you. _Even though every single time she's gone, you miss her terribly, you can't help but feel the surge of pride that _she, _Brittany Susan Pierce, the love of your life, is the only one in the universe capable of such greatness. As you talk to her though, filling her in on your day with Mercedes in between laughing nervously about your night ahead, you frown a little, wishing that of all the days on the world, she wasn't away for this one. You wish she could be there with you, rubbing the inside of your wrist and calming you down, because you're _really_ anxious, even though you don't want to admit it to yourself. Plus, you'd really, _really _like her to see your performance, but you know that it's not a realistic possibility, not in the amount of time you have before the curtain goes up, so you don't bother to mention it, because there's no use making _either _of you feel bad.

Through hair and makeup, through dressing in that ridiculous sailor suit, she stays on the phone with you, excitedly murmuring words of encouragement, muting her phone occasionally, to talk to whoever comes into the lab, you guess, but not dwelling on her lament about being absent, because like you, she knows that sometimes are better not to mention, better not to get upset about, because you can't change the circumstances, and you _both _know that in any other, she'd be there, front and center, clapping the loudest at the end of each and every number. But it's okay, you're both okay with it, even though it sucks, because she _knows _you'll have a million other _bigger _nights, nights where she'll be there, watching you, beaming at you, making sure you have the approval that is most important to you than anything else in the world. And _you _know, even though you're waiting to tell her in person, that she won't just be watching from the audience, she'll be right up there on stage with you, living the dream you'd hardly dared to have.

When you finally hang up with her and make your way out onto the stage, you slip immediately into character, and you're actually grateful for all of those grueling hours of rehearsal you'd put in before you quit. Performing is easy for you, it always has been, because it's calculated and precise, two things you can absolutely handle. When you get to your favorite number though (not that you'll ever admit that you have a favorite number in _Funny Girl, _because you'll never hear the end of it), that's when emotion takes over, and suddenly, as you begin to _feel, _rather than simply act, it becomes so much more difficult than you had expected. You let your eyes close for an instant, and you become so much more yourself than the character you are playing, _Santana _is singing that song, not Fanny, and you wonder if anyone in the audience will notice your sudden break of character. As you belt out the words, you know that even if Brittany is hundreds of miles away, you're singing for her, not for Nick Arnstein, and the words roll off your tongue from the very depths of your soul.

_With one person, one very special person_

_A feeling deep in your soul_

_Says you were half,_

_Now you're whole_

A some point while you're singing that verse, you feel a shift in the atmosphere of the room, and like you always do, you can sense her presence. Instinctively, you let your eyes scan the audience, trying not to get your hopes up, but when they lock with crystal blue, you feel your breath hitch. Standing in the very back of the theater, in shredded jeans and an off the shoulder top, her hair piled up in a messy bun, and looking at you with more pride than you'd ever seen on the face of a person, is Brittany. You're not even sure why your girlfriend's ability to shirk off her responsibilities at MIT, and somehow travel down the east coast in less than four hours, all while talking to you on the phone for a good portion of that time even surprises you. She is, after all, some kind of magic, but it _does_, and you'd be lying if you said that her making it against all odds to your one night only performance wasn't one of the greatest surprises you've ever received.

As you finish up the first act, absolutely killing _Don__'__t Rain On My Parade, _you swear that you can hear her clapping above everyone else, and the feeling makes you giddy as you quickly find your way into the dressing room to get ready for Act Two. You hear Rachel and Sidney outside the door while you change costumes (apparently she made it, albeit, _very _late), voices raised and tears apparent, but you can't let yourself get caught up in it. You'll comfort Rachel for her shame, and possibly loss of a job, later, because you _are _a good friend to her, but you have to put your entire focus on killing the remainder of the performance, the performance that your angel of a girlfriend traveled over two-hundred miles to watch, for Rachel's sake as much as your own.

The second act is a blur, the songs running together as you feel the show, and your one night under the bright lights of Broadway, fading fast. You can't look for Brittany in the audience again, because you know that if you do, you'll break character again, you'll end up giving Nick a smile from Fanny that doesn't belong to him, one that only belongs to Brittany from _you_, and you can't have that. You cherish your Brittany smile way too much to let anyone else share in that, _especially _in a play. When the curtain lowers, and you step into the spotlight one last time to take your bow, that's when you look out at the crowd before you. There is so much applause that it makes you feel sort of lightheaded, and you immediately spot her, Mercedes sort of clinging to her arm, maybe for fear that she'll run up onto the stage and catch you up in her arms, kissing you as much as you want to kiss her, in front of the entire audience (and you know, obviously, from Nationals 2011 that such behavior is _more _than frowned upon). Unable to move much, she hops on the balls of her feet, grinning wider than you've ever seen, clapping for you like her life depends on it, and you look right at her, giving her the special smile you've been saving.

Skin still burning from the stage lights, you return to the dressing room, this time, no yelling behind the door distracting you as you drop your head back against the vanity chair and just exhale all the breath you feel like you've been holding in for the entirety of the night. When the door creaks open, you don't have to look up to know who's come in the room, but you open your eyes anyway, because you really want to see her, to let it solidify that she actually made it. Brittany doesn't say a word, she just walks slowly over to you and straddles your lap in the chair, pressing her soft lips against yours, kissing you so deeply, so intensely that your vision whites out. You can feel her pride, her happiness, her pounding pulse, her _everything_, and it steals your breath away knowing that there's someone out there who believes in you as much as she does.

"You. Were. Amazing." She tells you in between kisses, and the butterflies you in your belly multiply, until you're sure they'll fly out of your mouth. "So, so amazing."

"You came." You manage, because you're so overwhelmed that you don't know what to say. Your hands grip at her shoulders, they run down her back, they _feel _for the tangible proof that she's here, and you don't actually know why you're in such a state of disbelief.

"I'm sorry I missed most of the first act." She sticks out her bottom lip, a little bit of a pout forming, and you shake your head, brushing off her apology, because she _came, _you don't care if she'd only seen the very last number, the fact that she'd made it at all was still so unreal. "I didn't want to tell you I'd come, just in case. It's a good thing my phone has a mute button, otherwise you would have heard me screaming at the ticket agent in South Station about how I _needed _to get on the first train to New York, because my girlfriend is amazing."

"Thank you, Brittany." You're not sure what else you can ever say, and feel your eyes dampen, big tears rolling down your cheeks before you fully realize that they're coming.

"Hey, hey." She kisses under each eye, and then brings her tear-wet lips back to yours. "Why are you crying?"

"I don't know." You choke out a sob, and you know you're not at all sad, you're actually _really _happy, but _all _of it, being on stage, Brittany being there to see it, your conversation with Mercedes in the afternoon, just things suddenly falling into place, for the first time in your life, is _a lot _for you to take, so you say the same thing again. "You came."

"Oh, honey." Brittany wraps her arms tightly around you, and hugs you close, letting your head rest against her chest, rubbing your back, tugging the pins that had held your hair up under the Fanny wig, and combing her fingers through. As she holds you, you feel so safe, safe because she knows you so well, she knows that sometimes you need more time to handle the good things than you do the bad, and you're both silent for a long while, breathing in each other's air, loving each other silently.

"I was good?" You finally speak, looking into her eyes, watching as her entire face breaks out into a huge smile.

"Santana, _good _doesn't even scratch the surface of describing you up there. I don't know all that much about _Funny Girl, _but I'm _sure _that you're the best there ever was. The people who were here tonight are _so _lucky that they got to see _you_. And _I'm _so lucky that I get to go home with you. You have so much talent, it still blows me away, even after all this time. Tomorrow, I'm going to find any paper that wrote a review of you, and print out all the articles on the internet."

"I'm not sure they do that for fill-in, one night only understudies, Britt." You tell her, but you smile so widely at the way she beams at you, the beaming that you're sure will _always _make your heart swell, no matter how many times you witness it.

"Well they _should, _especially for a spectacular one night engagement that's as awesome as this was, where it's _so _much better than when the main star is on stage."

"Shh." You laugh. "Rachel would die if she heard you say that."

"Rachel can get used to it." She rolls her eyes, and you really don't blame her for her blatant hatred of Rachel Berry, because you know if the tables were turned, and Rachel treated _her_ the way she treated you during the _Utterly Ridiculous Fanny Brice Understudy Fiasco, In Which Only Child Rachel Berry Needs To Learn How To Share, _as Kurt so concisely dubbed it, you'd probably murder her and throw her body in the East River with the rest of the garbage. "Especially because tomorrow, I'm getting out the camera and doing an entire episode of Fondue For Two about how awesome you are. This _needs _some major news coverage."

You laugh and you laugh, throwing your head back, and then bringing it back up to capture her lips again, because _how _did you get so lucky, having this perfect woman love you so much? You don't mention that she's already done _several _episodes of Fondue For Two that focused primarily on your awesomeness, including the one she'd queued to air announcing your long vacation, once you were already bound for Greece, and no one could try and talk you out of it. You'll let her make a thousand episodes of her show about you, if that makes her happy, and you know that someday, when you're actually established as a musician, you'll write a thousand songs about _her, _because you think she's just as awesome as she thinks you are, possibly even more.

"Did you have fun?" She asks, and you can't help but notice something flicker behind her eyes, a hope, probably, that she didn't make a mistake in helping you figure out that this very thing was what she helped you see that you didn't want in the first place.

"You know, I never thought I'd say this, but I'd actually rather be _me _then pretend to be someone else. I did that for long enough, without a stage, and I don't know, I loved being on stage, but it's _definitely _not something I want to do long term."

"I love you." Brittany breathes again, and you both know that those three words are enough to convey how she feels about what you just said.

"You're not going back to Boston tonight then?" You ask, hoping it's true, because now that she's here, the thought of getting in your bed alone, only smelling her on her pillow, sucks even more than it would have otherwise. She shakes her head, and when she sees you smile, she smiles again.

"So I was thinking." She quirks an eyebrow, and the look in her eyes tells you exactly what it is before she even says it. "Since you're going to fax that contract to my dad to look at first thing tomorrow, and then sign it as soon as he says it's legit, I should _probably _get used to having sex with my soon-to-be super famous girlfriend in dressing rooms."

"Oh really?" You smirk, and she plays with the hairs at the nape of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. "Well what if I told you that your soon-to-be super famous girlfriend happened to mention something about some hot blonde dancer that might be the perfect person to have working with us."

A gasp squeaks out from between her lips, and her eyes go wide, _exactly _why you'd wanted to wait to tell her the news in person, because you'd wanted so badly to see her reaction. She squirms in your lap, like she's not sure what to even do with her limbs, she's shocked, and excited, and you think that maybe the entire room is just a little bit brighter, because of all that's radiating from within her. You hardly have a moment to breathe, because her lips are on yours, and she's kissing you hard, tugging at your hair, desperate to show you all the appreciation she has for you not leaving her behind in this dream (as if you'd _ever _really leave her behind, she knows that by now).

"I'd say you better get this dress off, _now."_ She growls, pulling the zipper in the back so hard, you're pretty sure she's torn the fabric, but you don't care, you're never wearing it again. "Because as amazing as you were on that stage, I want _Santana Lopez_, not Fanny Barbra Rachel Streisand Whomever."

Your whole body sparks at her forcefulness, and before you can even move to get out of the offending costume, Brittany sinks her teeth into your neck, causing you to moan so loud at you're sure if anyone remains in the theater, they'll hear you. She works like lightening, somehow managing to get your dress off while she's still on top of you, and flinging it across the room. You feel the ferocity in every place her hands touch your skin, and in a rare twist of roles, it is you who calms _her_, bringing one wrist to your lips and then the other, before you raise her arms above her head and remove her shirt, leaving her in jeans and a bra, one knee planted on each side of your thighs. You feel the race of her heart, and you bring your lips down, kissing there, feeling it hammer against your mouth,

"You...just _you_…you're, I don't even know." She gets out, and you see the mist in her eyes, _her _time to cry from that all-consuming happiness, and the excitement of seeing _her _dreams come true, beyond the one you share of being with each other.

"No, Brittany. _You. _I love you, and I want you to be part of every step of this dream for that reason, but I also wasn't lying when I told you that you're the most amazing dancer I've ever met. You deserve this on merit alone."

"I love you. So much, Santana." Her lips are back on yours, gentler this time, and it's you who opens your mouth first, sliding your tongue into hers, tasting her elation as she giggles into you, because she can't even figure out what else to do.

Your hand moves down to her jeans, and you play with the button for a moment before you pop it open and pull the zipper down, not going any further than that yet. You want to savor this, you want to enjoy every second of how happy you are that she made it to your one and only performance on the Broadway stage, every second of how happy she is about having a _real _place to dance, instead of on the counter of the diner where sometimes it feels like dreams go to die, every second of how happy you _both _are that somehow, both of your dreams have managed to meld into one thing (and you make a mental note, before your mind goes hazy, to check the internet and see if it's possible to send gift baskets of tater tots, because _someone _deserves a huge thank you for believing in you both). Brittany's fingers play at the top of your godawful tights, and when she begins inching them down slowly, sensing the pace you want to keep, you shiver in anticipation.

It proves near impossible to remove tights and skinny jeans while you're tangled up in each other, so Brittany stands up, and you both shed the barriers that keep you from touching one another where you want to the most. In nothing but her bra, she sinks back over your lap, and you gasp as her wetness hits your skin. You can't help but buck your hips, more turned on then you ever believed possible as you catch a glimpse of the two of you in the mirror, and you feel your fingers twitch, aching to be inside of her. Her lips are back on your neck, sucking at the spot she'd bitten earlier, and you try to concentrate on where your hand is working the clasp at her back. When you manage to open the bra, and it falls loose on her shoulders, she breaks her concentration on your neck as cool air hits her nipples, peaking them. Almost immediately, you tilt her chin back up to kiss her, then trail your tongue down over her jaw, the tightly strung muscles of her neck, her collarbone, until you reach the top of her right breast and you stop, looking back up at her with her head tilted back.

"So beautiful." You breathe, and take her nipple in your mouth, your own arousal furthered by the deep, primal moan that falls from her parted lips.

You're so distracted by the combined effort of watching Brittany, and being the cause of the blissful little noises that she's making that you don't notice the patterns her fingers are drawing over your stomach, or that their trails are becoming lower and lower, until suddenly, you feel pressure against your clit. You're glad that you're holding so tightly to Brittany, or else the sudden upward jerk of your hips would have sent her flying off of your lap and into a heap on the floor. You look up at her face and notice the slightest curl of her lips, self satisfaction at her constant ability to make your body react violently evident. Two fingers tease at your entrance, and you shudder, spreading your legs wider, silently begging her to push them inside of you. She makes you wait though, dipping just the very tips, before removing them, and bringing the digits to her mouth, a full on smirk appearing as she sucks them in.

You shift slightly, pushing her legs apart with yours, and your hand mirrors what she'd been doing only seconds earlier, making her feel the tingling anticipation that reverberates through your entire being. It's you who succumbs to her desires first, thrusting your fingers inside as your thumb continues to work her sensitive bundle of nerves, drawing animalistic noises from her throat as she drops her face to your neck. Brittany needs no encouragement to lower her hand back between your legs, and it isn't long before the two of you work up a rhythm, and you aren't sure who's moans are who's anymore, as they fill the room, bouncing off of hundred and fifty year old steel beams. You fuse your lips together, kissing furiously, and at some point, Brittany's free hand finds your's, tangling your fingers together, because even though you're sort of furiously fucking each other in a dressing room where someone could walk in any second, it doesn't feel cheap or dirty, it still feels beautiful and special, simply because you just love each other _so _much.

"San-tah-ugh." She tries to rasp, and by the tightening of her walls around your fingers, you can feel how dangerously close to the edge she is. "How...?

"So cl-close." You try to answer her unfinished question, because you know she wants to come at the same time just as badly as you do, you know she feels the intimacy of it just as strongly, every time you manage it.

As she picks up her pace, you slow yours, but continue the insistent _tap, tap _of your curled fingertips against her spot, getting closer and closer to your release with every mewl and sigh that comes from her mouth. You're pretty sure you hear her tell you _now, _but you don't need her verbal direction, you're there already, plummeting into an abyss of Brittany as you squeeze her hand so tightly it's possible you might break the bones there. Sweaty and panting, you continue coming, and you keep your fingers moving inside of her, wanting all of this moment to last forever. You don't know why, but you feel some kind of gravity in it, like it's another _first, _the beginning of the next step in your future together, and lazily, your lips brush Brittany's as you slowly start to come down from your high. She remains inside of you, and following her lead, you keep yourself buried in her, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep tangled up like that, even as the air conditioning starts to chill the beads of sweat on your back and face, and you know that somehow, you'll have to get yourselves home.

"You're perfect." She mumbles against your jaw, and you laugh, because if _anyone _is, it's her. "I'm serious, you're just...I'm just happy, all of these months since I've been back with you, I'm nothing but happy."

"Me too, baby. Trust me, it's like, all of these good things started happening for me once I was back where I belong." You kiss her temple and sigh out contentment, because it's the truth.

"We're pretty awesome on our own, but we're even better together."

"Just wait, the world doesn't know what's about to hit them, Britt."

"Oh, I know that. But when we take the world by storm, Mercedes might want to make sure that you and I have our own dressing room. Because this needs to happen, all the time."

"As if she doesn't know us well enough by now." You laugh again, and pull her impossibly closer to you. "I'm so glad you made it home for me."

"So am I, Santana. So am I."


End file.
